


enough and more than enough

by sunbrights



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Love Languages, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbrights/pseuds/sunbrights
Summary: Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.(A collection of short fics set in an AU where kissing someone temporarily leaves a heart mark on their skin where you kissed them.)
Relationships: Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko/Pekoyama Peko
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	1. one hundred

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewildwilds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/gifts).



> The heart mark AU is the brain child of the iconic and brilliant @thewildwilds, and you can check out various posts about it scattered around tumblr [here](https://sunbrights.tumblr.com/tagged/au%3A-heart-mark) and [here](https://thewildwilds.tumblr.com/post/181279607587/christmas-prompt-during-their-time-at-hopes)!

They start dating in March. That makes it easy, once school starts; all they have to do is memorize the lengths of each other’s sleeves. He knows exactly where Peko’s cuffs hit her when she reaches her arms out to take something, or when she stretches them high over her head. He knows where her line is, and she knows the same for him. It’s basic geometry. Easy. **  
**

(Easy for people who aren’t stupid, anyway. Nobody can get around the big, round yellow hearts moms leave behind on cheeks and foreheads, but only dumbasses let their hormones get away with them during the school day. That’s how they find out Souda has been hooking up with some chick in the class below them, when he comes back from lunch with fluttery pink hearts all around his lips and chin and neck.)

The problem is: both their summer uniforms are short-sleeved, and June isn’t that far away.

They talk about it. They agree that they both prefer discretion. They’ve only been dating a couple of months, and it’s not anyone else’s business what they do. (And he likes it, having this thing just for them, tucked behind the rolled cuff of a dress shirt.)

There are options: his shoulders and her collarbones and both their knees, if she wears her tights while the weather is still cool in the mornings. All those options feel like too much, though. He thinks about how far he’d have to pull back the collar of her blouse, how many buttons he’d have to undo to make it work, and trips over his own tongue before he’s even done suggesting it. She goes beet red, eyes on her lap.

They agree: they can keep to themselves, at least during school hours.

The day before they’re supposed to change uniforms, they spend the afternoon studying together in the library. It empties out after an hour or two. They’re tucked at a table in one of the back corners, away from doors and windows. It’s not as risky as it could be, but it’s still riskier than he’s usually okay with, when he reaches for her arm.

It’s just, it’s the last day. It’s his last chance. He tugs her sleeve up, touches his lips to the inside of her wrist, and lingers there when the color blooms into her skin.

“Careful,” she warns softly.

Most marks teenagers leave on each other are like Souda’s: cute, pale pink ones that fade in an hour or less. The ones he and Peko leave on each other are rich, dark red. He had one on his elbow take almost an entire day to fully disappear.

(It’s something to talk about. He’s never had the guts to bring it up.)

“Do you not want me to?” he asks her.

She’s smiling at him, in her soft, muted sort of way. “It’s alright,” she says. “Just be careful.”

He hikes her sleeve up a little bit more. He presses another kiss higher on her forearm, and then another in between, and another, until he’s drawn a line up the whole length of her elbow. He’s getting them out of his system, he reasons. The last ones before summer.

(She has to wear a light cardigan, the next morning. No one else notices, except for him.)

Three weeks into the summer term, it’s already starting to drive him up the goddamn wall.

They agreed “during school hours,” but it isn’t like they’re drowning in opportunities outside of school, either. He still doesn’t want his parents to know. He’ll never hear the end of it if Natsumi finds out.

He tries, though. He sits near her when no one else is paying attention. They hold hands when no one else is in the room. He goes to her kendo matches and sits in the back row, whooping along with the rest of the class whenever she scores a point.

He just wishes he could do _more._

There’s a big kendo tournament, late in July, before summer break. The only reason their school is on the board at all is because Peko has been carrying the team all year; she demolishes the competition, racks up point after point after point, and carries them through every match.

Halfway through, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Two minutes later, he leaves to get some water. They bump into each other in the hallway outside the gym, not at all by accident.

“You’re doing real good out there,” he says, even though it’s obvious she is, because he wants to say _something_ and can’t think of anything else. “Kickin’ ass and takin’ names.”

“Thank you,” she answers, polite and restrained, exactly how she should be in public. She’s better than him at this.

She turns to head back into the gym, and it strikes him: she has to wear her kendo uniform. The whole thing. She has a helmet, and padding, and gloves, and she keeps most of it on the whole day.

It’s risky.

“Wait,” he blurts.

She turns back to him, frowning.

The hall is empty. He doesn’t know how long it’ll stay that way. He doesn’t think about it: he scoops her hand into his, heart in his throat, and presses his mouth just behind her knuckles. She takes a sharp little breath. Her skin warms under his lips, and when he leans back, the mark has already faded in: dark red and unmistakable.

“Good luck,” he manages, breathless and not smooth at all. “For the- the second half.”

It’s worth it. She’s smiling, cheeks pink, when she presses her palm back into her glove.


	2. one thousand

The week after her birthday, Natsumi comes home with a row of marks high on her throat, beneath her ear, pink-red and unmistakable. She’s not even trying to hide them; she wears her hair in a tight bun on top of her head, with every single strand pulled up and away from her neck.

It’s a fucking _shitshow_ at dinner. By the end of it, there’s a plate of miso dengaku flung across the floor, Natsumi is on her feet, and Mom is gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles are white.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” she spits. “Sit _down,_ Natsumi.”

Natsumi sits. But she holds her chin up, her neck long, and angles her head so that Mom has to keep staring at the marks for the rest of dinner. It’s blatant and smug and— fucking stupid, for no fucking reason.

(Fuyuhiko has to remind himself four more times after that not to reach for anything on the table further away than his own water glass.) 

He follows her after dinner, out into one of the smaller gardens off the side of the house, even when she tries to slam the side door in his face. Because he’s— pissed off, mostly, and isn’t that a good enough fucking reason? She’s being a bitch just because she feels like it, and if it blows up in _his_ face, there’s gonna be hell to pay.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps, wrenching the door back hard enough to rattle it.

She doesn’t turn around, just reaches up with both hands to pick the tie out of her hair. Her voice is infuriatingly even when she answers, “What?”

“You know what, dumbass.” 

“Oh, please.” He can see her rolling her eyes, even though he can’t _see it_ see it. She’s struggling with the tie, fingers hooking through knots. “I know you’re a fucking prude, but you can’t seriously—” 

“I’m not a prude!” he says, and— goddammit, his voice cracks too high, and there’s heat creeping up the back of his collar, and fuck, that’s _not_ what this is about. “It’s fucking stupid! I can think it’s stupid and not be—”

She whirls on him, her hair spilling out around her shoulders. He can still see the marks, bright pink bleeding through gold. “Right,” she hisses, her fake-ass calm snapping in two. “You’re right. It doesn’t make you a prude, it makes you a _coward._ ”

And it— it doesn’t make any sense. It comes out of fucking _nowhere._ It’s stupid, and it’s wrong, she’s blowing a bunch of hot air because she’s pissed that Mom embarrassed her in front of everyone, and it—

It hits him, hard, like a solid kick, square in the chest.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he manages.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she says, and then her hand snaps out toward him.

Panic lights up from the pit of his stomach to the center of his chest. He’s pulling his right elbow in before he even thinks about it. “Fuck _off_ —”

But she’s already got him by the shirt sleeve. She twists his cuff back, hard enough that it pinches the skin of his forearm, and there’s no hiding the mark after that: it’s barely started to fade, and it’s too dark to pass for anything other than what it is. 

(Peko put it there three days ago— _three fucking days,_ and it’s still only just blurry around the edges— when he had to leave class early to go clean up a mess downtown. They hadn’t even had a clear window; they’d been out alone together on the breezeway by pure coincidence, and there wasn’t any guarantee it’d stay that way. She’d caught him by the hand anyway, lifted it to her lips, and tucked a kiss just beneath the edge his cuff. She’d been smiling when she did it, just a little, just enough that he was only able to tell when it was pressed against his skin.)

The vicious satisfaction on Natsumi’s face freezes. She was expecting to find it, obviously, but he doesn’t think she was expecting to find it like _that:_ deep, dark red, like strawberry syrup. 

“See?” she says, when he twists his arm away from her. “Pathetic.” 

His face is burning. He can feel it, out in the cold night air. “It’s none of your fucking business,” he tells her, struggling to fold his cuff back down with fat fucking fingers.

“As far as you’re concerned,” she bites back, “it’s not anything at all.”

He feels sick. With- With anger, obviously, because it’s bullshit, all of it. She’s always been like this, acting like she knows shit when she doesn’t fucking know anything at all. Sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

“I told you to _fuck off,_ ” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. “Fuck with Mom on your own time, not when I’m trying to eat my goddamn dinner.” 

He slams the door right back on her when he goes back into the house.

  


* * *

  


All of Natsumi’s marks are gone by the next morning.

By the time dinner rolls around again, Fuyuhiko still has the ghost of an outline on the inside of his wrist.

  


* * *

  


Peko likes the spring. She’s never exactly _said so,_ not directly, but it’s not that hard to tell, if you know what to look for. It’s in her eyes, the way they go kinda crinkly and awed and curious when she looks at things. It happens when she watches stray cats watch her from the lips of tall garden walls. It happens when she walks by shop displays decorated with pastel ribbons tied into bows. And it happens in the spring, when flowers spill open on tree branches and drop petals down onto the sidewalk.

They’re in the park. They’re not _alone,_ but it’s later in the day, and it’s starting to get kind of chilly; most of the people who were here when they showed up have cleared out, and the rest couldn’t give two shits about them. 

He’s watching her make that face, right now, at a tree with tiny white flowers hanging over their bench. She’s got her chin tipped back and her face relaxed, and... yeah. Natsumi’s a bitch, but maybe— _maybe_ — she’s not always wrong.

He says, “Hey.” 

Peko’s chin tips down, and then she’s looking at _him_ like that, curious and crinkled and soft. 

He nudges her pinky with his. “Can I…?”

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. She turns her hand up on the bench, and sets the back of it into his palm when he does the same. 

He likes to kiss her wrists, when he gets to choose. He can feel her pulse there, and he— gets to hold her hand. He leaves them like that, for a second: her open hand set into his, his thumb curled carefully into the center of her palm.

She’s watching him, still. “What is it?” she asks softly.

_Coward,_ he thinks.

“Do you—” Why the fuck is it so hard to talk all of a sudden? They’ve just been sitting here. It wasn’t even that far of a walk. But his heart is still beating so loud it’s drowning out his fucking _thoughts._ “Uh.” Her brow furrows, a little, like she’s just as worried as he is that his brain won’t fucking cooperate, so he just… blurts it out.

He says, “Do you wanna meet my sister?”

  


* * *

  


Natsumi’s giving him the cold shoulder still, but she’ll show up for a free milkshake, every time. “I’m getting _three_ premium toppings,” she tells him, when she slides into line beside him. “Deal with it.”

“Fine,” he says, thumbing through his wallet. “Whatever. Just order.”

She bounces up to the counter on her tiptoes, and orders chocolate, with— _yeah_ — all three of the most expensive toppings the place has. When she’s done, he orders vanilla on the same tab, with extra whipped cream and two helpings of the rainbow sprinkles.

Natsumi is watching him, her mouth opening up into a stupid, wide, incredulous grin, but he can’t— even think about her right now. He keeps his eyes on the bored-looking kid behind the counter, his heart going crazy in his chest, and says, “For- For my, uh— For my girlfriend.” 

The dumb fucking smile drops straight into shock.

“And, uh, just— tea,” he finishes, fumbling his card out. “For me.”

He half-expects her to flip out right there at the goddamn counter, but she doesn’t. He can feel her staring at him, but he can’t deal with whatever her fucking face is doing right now, so he doesn’t look. He waits, and scoops up the vanilla milkshake and the tea when they’re ready.

Natsumi’s still just standing there, looking at him. “Get your shake,” he grunts, when he shoulders past her. “We’ve got a table already.”

Peko is waiting already, in a booth by the window.

He puts the tea down in front of her. “Thank you,” she murmurs, soft enough that even he barely hears it, when he sits down beside her.

“Yeah,” he answers, trying not to let heat creep up the back of his neck, like that’s ever worked before. He can feel Natsumi just _staring_ at them, fuck, can she not be super fucking weird for five goddamn seconds? “Thanks for— you know.”

Peko smiles at him, tiny. “Yes.”

Behind him, Natsumi takes a long, gurgling slurp of her milkshake. When he finally psyches himself up enough to look back at her, she’s in the _fucking_ middle of the _goddamn_ store, with one hand on one popped hip. 

“What the fuck?” she says, loudly enough that some old dude three tables down glares at her.

“For fuck’s sake, Natsumi—” he starts, but then Peko’s hand is on his wrist, beneath the table.

He feels her take a steadying breath. “Hello, Kuzuryuu-san,” she says, and Natsumi’s attention snaps to her. “My name is Pekoyama Peko. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

Natsumi’s eyes narrow into slits. She shoves her straw back into her mouth and rolls up to the side of the table with her chin high and her shoulders back, one hip dropped at a lazy, threatening angle. It’s a test. A stupid fucking— trial by fire.

Peko meets her gaze, and doesn’t flinch.

Natsumi drops her milkshake to the table. It jumps, and clatters, and by some fucking miracle doesn’t spill. She looks at him, and then at the vanilla shake he’s got tucked between his palms, and rolls her eyes.

“I know,” she says finally, snottily, and flops into the other side of the booth. “It’s about damn time.”


End file.
